


the ones that never would

by eleftheriawrites



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Forbidden Love, Grounder AU, M/M, Minor Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleftheriawrites/pseuds/eleftheriawrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not supposed to love you."</p><p>"Are you saying that you do? Love me?"</p><p>or, the one where Monty is the Prince of Polis and Miller is the Prince of Azgeda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monty

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea after watching last night's episode and I decided to act on it! As some of you may know, I am already working on another Minty fic that is my main focus right now, so I'm not sure how often updates for this book will come! I do hope you give it a chance, though, so please give it a read, kudos, and comment!

Monty hadn't meant to fall in love, especially not with the son of his mother's worst enemy.

He was taught to hate the Ice Nation with all of his being, with no exceptions. And he did. He had hated them ever since the Ice Nation King killed his father. He would always hate them. He didn't want to kill them, though. No one deserved to be killed, and he saw himself no better than them when he was the one to slit their throats or put a spear through their chests. But he always did, because that was his job. 

And then Prince Nathan Miller of Azgeda came into his life.

They had been in battle, yet again, with the Ice Nation.

It was no surprise, really, when the inhabitants of Azgeda marched towards Polis.

Luckily, the Grounders of Polis were able to notice them far enough from the capital to--hopefully--not damage the small city.

It was easy, battles with the Ice Nation. At least, that was what Monty had always thought when he went into battle. Which, because he was the Prince, was all the time.

This time, though, he was wrong. The Ice Nation was ruthless, Monty knew that, but they usually retreated when more than half of their army was already killed. And now, with only about a hundred warriors left, they continued forward. Monty let out a heavy breath before stabbing his sword into yet another warrior--a _person,_ and Monty hated to think of them as one, because it only hurt him more when the life left their eyes.

After a few more minutes, they seemed to finally come to their senses. Fifty warriors, maybe, ran quickly from their spots and the Polis Grounders watched as they retreated. After each one was hidden behind the tree line, the opposing side also retreated back to their capital city. Monty stayed behind, as he always did, to retrieve their weapons and--for his own personal benefit--to pay his respects.

He walked among the hundreds of dead bodies clad in fur and bones. He checked for a pulse on each and every one, though no hearts beat anymore. He bent over the last warrior that lay in the grass when he heard a groan from his left. 

Monty had his sword gripped in his hand within seconds and stood up abruptly. He was nervous, he admitted to himself reluctantly. Monty didn't see himself as a warrior. He didn't like to fight, or kill. He liked to fix things, not destroy them.

Another groan came and Monty started toward that direction. A large rock came into sight and splatters of blood caked it's surface. 

_You can do this, you can do this,_ Monty chanted in his head and moved to behind the rock. He wielded his sword in front of his chest. 

"Damn it," he saw the injured boy's mouth form the words, but he could barely hear as he was overtaken with fear. He was Ice Nation, he knew. There was no doubt in his mind. 

Monty breathed shakily as he realized.

The Prince of Azgeda sat in front of him, injured, and vulnerable. And Monty was supposed to capture him.


	2. Miller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm so I've got some ideas for this book now and I think it will be updated more frequently than not :) I've also decided that each chapter will be alternating between Miller's and Monty's POVs. I quite like this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it, too!

Miller didn't want to go into battle today. He simply didn't feel like it. Though, according to his father, it was his job. Which, Miller thought was complete bullshit. 

Nevertheless, here Miller stood on the edge of the tree line, waiting to attack Polis. 

He was bored of this, really. He didn't see the point of going into battle with the opposing side, because the Ice Nation always ended up with more casualties.

And, this time, he was one of them.

Someone had stabbed him, right in the stomach. Not deep enough to kill him--at least, not immediately--but deep enough to make it bleed and hurt like a bitch.

Miller had managed to crawl behind a rock large enough to hide him from any warriors, from both his side and his opponents. And then Azgeda retreated, leaving him to fend for himself, bleeding and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, scared. 

He sat still for the minutes following until he could hear footsteps no longer. He let himself release a groan of pain as he lifted his hand from the wound. Blood gushed from his stomach, and Miller could barely tell where the actual damage was from all the blood coating his body and clothing.

Another sound left his mouth when he put pressure back on the wound, and then he heard footsteps. Light footsteps, left by someone lightweight, he could tell. He closed his eyes and breathed out heavily, praying to gods he wasn't even sure he believed in.

And then there he was. A boy, skinny and, as Miller presumed, lightweight. And, of course, _of course,_ this boy was the Prince of Polis. 

"Damn it," Miller looked down and shook his head. He willed himself to let no emotion crash into his features and held a stoic expression on his face. He turned his head towards the boy and finally met his eyes. He saw him give him a once-over and his eyes landed on Miller's bleeding stomach.

The Prince--Monty, Miller knew his name was--knelt next to the Prince of Azgeda and stared at his blood-soaked hand and clothing. "Uh, are you- how bad is your wound?"

Well, out of all things for him to say, Miller was definitely not expecting _that_.

"It's, bad? I don't know, I'm not a doctor," Miller breathed heavily as another burst of pain shot from the wound through his entire body. 

The boy, Monty, let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, neither am I." He, again, looked at Miller's hand. "Can I take a look?" 

Miller hesitated. This boy had to have some kind of ulterior motive, Miller knew. They were enemies. Their parents were enemies. Miller shouldn't even be talking to the Prince of Polis, let alone be letting him 'help' him, of that's even what he was doing.

He didn't really have a choice, though, did he? He was practically bleeding out, and he was already getting dizzy, so taking the very long walk back to Azgeda wasn't even an option. He didn't want to trust this boy. He didn't want his help.

Then again, what would he do if this boy wasn't here?

"Yeah, okay," Miller finally said after several moments of silence. He clenched his eyes shut as he lifted his hand from the stab, and he felt the boy's soft hands on the area around it. His eyes reopened in realization that he was letting the son of his father's biggest enemy touch his bleeding stomach, and he could easily kill him right now.

Miller refrained from pulling away and punching him in the face to distract him long enough to get away. 

_It's not an option. It's not an option_ , he told himself relentlessly, like a chant in his head.

He saw the boy's nose scrunch up at the sight of Miller's blood, and he let out a chuckle. He only allowed himself to do so because of the tense silence that he just couldn't stand for any longer.

The boy looked up curiously. "What?" Miller shook his head in reply.

"Your name's Monty, right?" He said, instead, and watched the boy's eyebrows furrow.

"Uh, yeah. And you're Nathan," Monty replied, and he said it more as a statement than a question.

"Miller," he corrected and Monty gave him a questioning look that he chose to ignore.

"This is too deep for me to do anything about," Monty said and Miller sighed. _Great._ "I can go get one of our healers-"

"No," Miller said tersely. "I don't need your help." He attempted to stand, but his eyes betrayed him when he saw three Monty's in front of him.

"Yeah, I don't think that's a great idea," Monty said and helped him sit back down. "Trust me, Clarke won't say anything to anyone. Just, stay here."

He turned to run back to his capital city, but Miller caught his hand before he could get away. "Why are you helping me?" Everything this boy was doing for him went against anything that his father has ever told him about the Polis Grounders.

Monty stared at him for a few seconds before replying, with something in his eyes that Miller couldn't quite decipher. The boy shrugged. "It's just who I am, I guess." And he started to run. 

And Miller couldn't tell what this was. He could be waiting for Monty and this Clarke girl to come to him, or he could be waiting for an army of Polis warriors coming to capture him or kill him. And, still, Miller could do nothing about it.

_What am I getting myself into?_


	3. Monty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, school's been making me busy! I'll try to get another update out soon that's longer than this chapter!

_What am I getting myself into?_ Monty thought as he departed from the rock Miller was leaning against.

This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. Monty knew that. Hell, of _course_ he knew that. Yet, he still couldn't not help the boy, even if the boy was the son of his mother's enemy.

He cursed at himself throughout the whole journey back to Polis, and even the long amount of time it took to make it back to his home wasn't long enough for him to figure out how to persuade Clarke into helping Miller.

Ice Nation was the reason for her father's death, after all. Then again, they were the reason for _his_ father's death, too, and he was still helping one of them.

Monty calmed his pace as he grew closer to the gate, and the guards recognized him immediately, letting him into the gate with no questions asked as to why he was out of breath and holding no weapons, which was why he was supposed to stay behind in the first place.

"Clarke!" He yelled as he entered the medical station and all eyes in the room turned to look at him. His cheeks grew more red than they already were from the  
heat of running. "Uh, is Clarke here?"

"Monty?" She emerged from behind one of the walls with a confused expression, her eyebrows frowning.

"Can I, uh, have a second?" He replied, still out of breath. She nodded and they exited the medical station wordlessly. "I have a problem." He said when they  
were alone behind the building.

"What kind of problem?" Clarke looked at him cautiously.

"The Prince of Azgeda is injured, and he needs your help," he pinched his mouth closed when she gave him a dumbfounded look.

"Excuse me?" It wasn't funny, really, but Monty couldn't help but start to laugh. Monty clearly didn't deal well with stress.

"Oh my. What am I doing?" He mumbled to himself and combed his fingers through his hair. 

"The Prince of Azgeda. The freaking _Prince_ of Azgeda, Monty! And you didn't capture him?!" This was the kind of response Monty didn't want.

"I can't, Clarke, you know that. He's hurt. Will you please just help him?" Monty pleaded and she looked at him, confused.

"Monty, you know what his family has done to us. This is an opportunity-"

"His family, Clarke! Not him, his family. Please, do this for me."

She hesitated. "Why do you want to help him so much?"

Monty laughed. "He asked me the exact same thing." He shook his head. "I don't know. You know who I am, Clarke. I'm not just going to leave him to die." 

"Okay, but we could bring him here, treat him, and keep him as prisoner. It's leverage against the Ice Nation. It's _power _, Monty," she said, again, and he  
shook his head. __

__"I won't do that."_ _

___Clarke gave him a harsh look before turning around and stomping away from him, taking the corner around the medical station. Monty groaned and composed himself  
before going around the medical station himself. He makes his way to the doors and is about to open them before Clarke bursts them open herself, carrying a bag  
over her shoulder. "Let's go, idiot." _

__He let out a breath. "Thank you."_ _

__"Yeah, yeah. Where is he?"_ _

__*******_ _

__They'd almost arrived at the rock, now, when Clarke spoke up. "How do you know this isn't a trap?"_ _

__"I don't."_ _

__Clarke laughed. "If I die-"_ _

__"You're not gonna die, Clarkey," Monty used her nickname for good measure. "He's bleeding out and can barely move. I highly doubt that was a plan."_ _

__Monty held her back as he walked the remaining few steps to the rock, and he peered around it cautiously. Still sitting there was Miller, now pale and unconscious, with a sword limply gripped in his hand. "Hey, Nathan," Monty said and slapped him lightly on the cheek. "Nathan!"_ _

__The sword came up quickly, too quickly for Monty to grab it before it came up to his neck. "Hey, hey, Nathan, it's me. Monty. You know, the guy that's trying to save your  
life." _ _

__Realization came across Miller's face and he dropped the sword before grumbling, "It's Miller. You bring your friend?"_ _

__"Yeah," he nodded. "Clarke!" He yelled, now, and she appeared by his side in seconds._ _

__"Holy shit," she breathed out._ _

__"Nice to meet you, too," Miller said in a voice no louder than a whisper. "Wanna fix this up or what?" He motioned to his stomach with his free hand, very sluggishly, and Monty could see his eyes starting to close again._ _

__"Hey, stay awake," he said and slapped him again._ _

__"If you slap me one more time," Miller murmured, trying to sound threatening, but not prevailing._ _

__Clarke knelt down next to him, as Monty already was, and lifted his hand away from the wound. "How long have you been bleeding for?"_ _

__"A while."_ _

__She rolled her eyes. "Thanks, smart-ass."_ _

__"It's Miller, actually." Miller replied, and Monty didn't know how he had the energy to joke around at a time like this._ _

__"Just shut up and sit still." Clarke said, her patience draining._ _

__"Yes, ma'am."_ _


	4. Miller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I'm trying to be better at updating! Let's see how this goes! Hope you like this chapter, enjoy :)

Miller was completely _done_ with being the Prince of Azgeda. He had been punched, shot, speared, and now stabbed. He was _utterly_ and _entirely done._ And while the small blonde girl did whatever she was doing—Miller didn’t know what, he was never a fan of medical lessons—he sat helplessly, relying on her to save his life. He was relying on a girl from fucking _Polis_ to save his life.

Yeah, he was _definitely_ done.

“Sit still,” the girl snapped when Miller shifted just the slightest bit. Correction: small, blonde, _feisty_ girl.

“Are you almost done?” He asked and she made a face at him without moving her eyes from the stitches she was sewing into his skin.

“Hold your horses,” she grumbled and Monty sent Miller an apologetic look. “There. You’re all set.” Miller stood immediately—well, more like _tried_ to stand—and leaned back against the rock again when blood rushed to his ears. He hummed quietly as his eyes attempted to focus on one image instead of three. 

“Thank you, Blondie,” he mumbled begrudgingly and leaned down carefully to grab a fallen stick from the ground. He used it as a temporary cane.

“You can’t just walk all the way back to Azgeda. That’s a long way to go,” Monty spoke up, now, and Miller raised his eyebrows.

“I’ll be fine, Green,” he said with a roll of his eyes and added a, “Thanks for your help.” Monty gave him a reluctant nod in return and when Miller started to take a few slow steps towards the woods, he grabbed Clarke’s hand and pulled her the opposite direction after yelling a, “Goodbye, _Nathan!”_

He made sure to exaggerate his first name. Miller rolled his eyes, again, and fought the urge to yell back at the boy.

“He’s not as…..Azgeda-ish as I thought he would be,” Miller heard the girl, Clarke, say as the pair retreated.

“I told you,” Monty said in return and Miller felt his lips tug upward, barely.

And, while Miller didn’t exactly _loathe_ their company, he wished he never had to interact with them again. 

****************

After a few very long hours, Miller made it to Azgeda. He was out of breath and sweaty, and his blood-soaked clothing stuck to his skin. He heard yells as he walked through the heavily-guarded entrance, several grounders on guard-duty running to his side. 

“Prince Miller! Are you injured? Did Polis take you captive?” What felt like hundreds of questions launched themselves at Miller and he wished he could just go to sleep. 

“I’m fine. Where’s my father?” He asked the man closest to him, and a path formed for him as the man guided him to his requested destination.

“Son!” Miller heard his father say, relieved, and arms engulfed him. He groaned when pressure was put on his injury, and his father pulled back immediately. “Are you hurt? What did they do to you?”

“We were in a battle, Father, what do you think?” Miller didn’t like being so harsh on his father, but he’d done so many things _wrong_ that led to Miller’s life being so much more difficult than it had to be.

“Let’s get you to medical, then,” his father ignored Miller’s snappiness and took his arm, but Miller pulled it away. 

“I’m fine.” That’d see to be a catch phrase to Miller these days, like a mantra just begging to be repeated at any opportunity.

“The blood on your clothing says otherwise,” his father, David, pointed out, but Miller was already walking towards the door. 

Miller sighed when he came into contact with _another_ set of arms, and Bellamy pulled away as soon as he heard the release of breath. “Dude, where were you? Are you okay?”

Again, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Bellamy said, worry seeping into his harsh features, and Miller was ready to collapse in exhaustion. 

“I’m fine. I’m going to bed.” He tried to walk around the taller boy, but to no avail.

“What is this?” Bellamy motioned to his shirt. “This isn’t even a shirt anymore! It’s all blood!”

Miller could see the panic on Bellamy’s face, and he felt the wish to punch his best friend in the face. “Bellamy, if you don’t get out of my way, I’m going to fucking deck you.” At that, Bellamy cautiously moved away from Miller’s path and instead walked next to him. 

“Can I at least see the damage?” Bellamy spoke up after a few moments of silence and moved in front of Miller again, this time walking backwards. Miller lifted his shirt to show the stitched-up flesh and Bellamy’s eyes widened.

“Miller, what the fuck? You got fucking stabbed?” Panic rose in Bellamy yet again, and the urge to punch him—and everyone in his way—returned, also. 

“What does it look like?” He said and still moved towards his living quarters.

“Who stitched it up for you, then? You and me both know you didn’t pay any attention in medical lectures,” Bellamy said, and Miller knew he could trust his best friend.

“This girl, from Polis,” Miller spoke softly after making sure no one was listening in, and Bellamy’s eyes grew even bigger. 

“From fucking- _What?!"_

They’d arrived at Miller’s living quarters, now, and Miller stood in the doorway, facing Bellamy. “I’ll explain later. Now please just shut up and let me sleep.”

The door slammed at that and Miller practically ran—well, walked as fast as he could, at least—to his bed. He lied down and his eyes drifted closed. He allowed his muscles to relax and just as he felt himself lingering between sleep and reality, a pain shot through his stomach. 

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,_ he thought to himself, though he wasn’t quite sure if he had said it aloud, too. 

Very reluctantly, he stood groggily from the bed, only to fall onto the floor. His vision multiplied and his head pounded, and he swore as he recognized the familiar feeling of the searing pain on his skin.

_Poison._


	5. Monty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! I'll try to get another update out soon, but for now, please enjoy! Feel free to leave comments and kudos :)

"He's not as.....Azgeda-ish as I thought he would be," Clarke said to Monty as they walked away from Miller, the Prince of Azgeda.

"I told you," Monty replied, rolling his eyes slightly.

He was glad to be walking away from the situation, away from the stress of a dying prince sitting in front of him. He'd helped someone, and he decided to leave it at that. No one but him and Clarke needed to know who it was that they helped.

"Hey, I need to retrieve some weapons before we go back. Want to help?" Clarke nodded and walked in her own direction, checking the bodies of dead Grounders for anything useful. 

They found few medical supplies--some stitches and gauze--and plenty of swords and spears to please the Queen, Monty's mother. Clarke pocketed the stitches and gauze while they both tried to carry every weapon they could, proving difficult with only four hands between them. The walk back to Polis didn't feel long at all with the company of his blonde-haired best friend, and the guards again let them into the capital without questions asked. 

They dropped the weapons into a pile next to the gate's opening, kindly requesting them to be brought to his mother. "Monty!" He heard and looked up to see none other than the Queen herself. "What took you so long?"

Monty only allowed himself a moment of panic and hesitation before he blurted the words out. "Um, there was quite a big amount of weapons, so I came back here first to get some help. I apologize for the wait, Mother."

"Oh, well, that's alright. As long as you completed the mission," she smiled, and Monty knew she was trying to be motherly, but it only sounded sour. "Now, why don't you get cleaned up? You look a right mess!" 

He nodded obediently and walked over to Clarke, where she stood a few yards away. The Queen's eyes followed his movements and Clarke, noticing, bowed to her. The Queen nodded with a smile, always insisting that Clarke had no need to do such a thing, though she kept quiet this time. 

"Come stitch my cuts up?" Monty asked Clarke when he reached her and she nodded, leading him to the medical station. They got inside and he sat on one of the cots, finally letting his muscles relax after a long day as he slouched his shoulders from their tight position. Clarke set her bag down on the cot next to him and he reached inside, grabbing the already-opened package of stitches that she had used on Miller.

"No! Don't use those!" She yelled frantically, catching some attention from nearby patients and healers, but they looked away when they caught Monty's eye.

It always annoyed him, how people acted so obedient around him.

"Um, why?" His eyebrows furrowed, and they frowned more when she took the stitches from his hand.

"Let's just use the new ones," she smiled limply and grabbed the new ones from her bag. 

"What did you do?" He asked, worried now, and he only just realized the small stinging in his fingers from where he had previously grazed them across the stitches. "What did you do?" He asked again, eyes wide now, and he looked down at the two packages in her hand. The change was only so noticeable, but Monty could tell. One was a darker shade than the other. 

"Monty, look-"

"Clarke, what did you just do?" He spoke in a soft voice now, thought the panic still didn't subside. "You poisoned the Prince of Azgeda. You _poisoned_ the Prince of Azgeda?!"

"Monty, keep your voice down-"

"I will not keep my voice down! Are you trying to get us all killed?! What the fuck, Clarke," he breathed rapidly now and he rose from the cot quickly, nearly running from the medical station, but she caught him arm.

"What are you going to do, huh? You going to run all the way to Azgeda, go help the Prince? He's probably already dead by now. This is a _good_ thing."

"A good thing? Clarke, he trusted us. He trusted us to help him and you-"

"Trust has nothing to do with this. He isn't one of us, Mont. He is from Azgeda. He's our enemy. He's killed our _parents,_ for fucks sake!" She was angry, red blooming on her cheeks and her face only an inch away from Monty's.

"He's still a _person_ , Clarke."

"Not to me, he isn't. He killed my _father_ -"

"The _King_ killed your fath-"

"He killed _your_ father-"

"The _King_ killed my fa-"

"He's killed everyone that we've-"

"Shut up!" Monty's voice rose above Clarke's, anger fuming in his features, too. "I hope you know that this doesn't make you any better than them. He trusted us, and you just killed him. Congratulations, Clarke. You probably just started a war."

He stormed out of the medical station, ignoring the prying eyes and small whispers as he left. He'd get stitched up somewhere else.


	6. Miller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long since the last update! I promise I'll try to be better for future chapters! I hope you enjoy this one though :)

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

Miller was done. Miller was so done. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted the freaking Prince of Polis. He knew not to trust any ordinary Grounder, but the Prince? What was he thinking?

As Miller sat curled in pain on the ground of his bedroom, contemplating all of his life choices, he could hear yelling from outside his door. He felt his grip on consciousness loosening, as well as his hand over the wound. His skin was burning and he felt hot and cold all at once, and he ached to peel his blood-and-sweat soaked clothing off his body.

A pounding at his door startled him from drifting slightly, but he deflated again only seconds later. “Hey, Miller! I know it’s only been like thirty minutes, but we gotta get you checked on! And I think you owe me some explaining, too!”

“Prince Miller wishes to not be disturbed at the moment, sir-”

“I don’t really care. Move,” Bellamy, Miller recognized, ordered. “Please,” he added, nearly always the polite one out of the two best friends.

Miller’s ears started to give out, the noise around him fading into only a small murmur. A large bang barely was audible as he let his eyes close, too tired to fight for consciousness. 

“Miller! Get help!” 

Hands, turning him on his back, lifting up his shirt, touching his skin. Voices, hushed whispers floating around him, loud yells calling out to each other, easing voices directed at him. Silence, finally overcoming him after hours of pain, after hours of warriors’ screaming, after soft reassurances from a soft prince.

*************

“What the fuck were you thinking,” Bellamy breathed heavily, anger filling his voice as he stood at the end of Miller’s cot.

“I was thinking that I want to live,” Miller spoke quietly, his body still not fully recovered from the poison previously running through his veins.

He’d been given the antidote for the poison in time and his stitches had been replaced, and he was fine. A little groggy and sore, if that, but _really, Bellamy, I’m fine._

“You let the Prince of Polis stitch you up. _You let the Prince of Polis stitch you up_.”

“Technically, it was his friend-”

“I don’t fucking care who it was, Miller! You could’ve died. You almost died,” Bellamy sat down next to him, his voice quieting. “You know, you’re really killing me here, Miller. I feel like every time I see you, you’re on your deathbed.”

Miller knew what he was referencing and his chest grew the slightest bit tight. “C'mon now, that was only once.”

“Maybe, but you almost died too, y'know. You took on some Polis Grounders by yourself and people died. Bryan died,” Miller looked away. “I don’t want you to end up like that too. Look at you, you’re letting them stitch you up without even putting up a fight and you almost died. Don’t go trying to kill yourself everyday because you’re guilty.”

“You sure as hell know I’ll always be guilty,” Miller’s voice was filled with venom. “It’s been two years. I’m fine. I’m not trying to go and kill myself just because I miss my boyfriend. I’m fine. This isn’t the same thing. It was a life or death situation. I chose life. If you want to keep screaming at me for that, then go ahead, but we both know you would’ve done the same thing.”

A knock at the door stops Bellamy from replying and when Miller’s father enters the room, Bellamy stands and bows. King David smiles softly. “Come on, now, son. You know that isn’t needed.”

Bellamy nods. “Yes, sir.” He says, not looking him in the eye, and exits the room.

King David turns to his son. “Would you mind telling me how this happened?” His gaze is stern, angry, but worried.

“I don’t know-” Miller starts, though his father shuts him up with a quick glare. Miller didn’t know why, but what he chose to say was, "I was stabbed. I went through some dead Grounders and found a stitching kit. I wasn’t paying attention to who was Polis or Azgeda at that point considering the amount of blood I was losing. Apparently it was Polis, since the stitches were poisoned. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine now.“

"They will pay for this. I promise you that.” His father says, and Miller holds back a bitter laugh.

_Yeah, and how many times have you said that before?_

Miller doesn’t reply. King David exits the room, leaving his son lonely and wondering why he decided to lie for the Prince that almost killed him.


	7. Monty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the long wait! Since it's my vacation now, I'll try to get more updates out. Hope you enjoy this chapter :)

_Two Months Later_

The leaves under his feet crunched with each step as Monty trekked through the uncharted territory of the forest with Clarke. Animals had started going into hibernation as the air grew colder, and Polis needed more food. Monty immediately took up the job of going into the land that neither Polis nor Azgeda owned because he loved the quiet in the area—or as quiet as the forest can get. Clarke was with him, both of them choosing to ignore the fight that had occurred a few months ago.

“You know, I don’t really see the appeal of being out here. It’s so quiet,” she wrinkled her nose when a bird silently flew by, no noise except for the light flap of it’s wings. 

“Exactly. It’s hard to get quiet anywhere near Polis. At least out here we can’t hear the buzz of the city,” Monty looked around and glanced over his shoulder before progressing forward. He always liked to be aware of his surroundings. 

“Alright, you go west, and I’ll go east. Try to find some berries or something,” Monty said, pointing in the different directions as he headed east. “Don’t go too far, only five minutes and then meet back here.”

He wandered around, searching for the littlest of foods to last them through the winter. He found some berries that he was sure weren't poisonous and put them into a small pouch, placing it next to the knife he brought in his satchel. Finding nothing after a few more minutes, he turned to head back towards Clarke, only to be met with a knife to his throat. He sucked in a deep breath and lifted his eyes to meet his attacker, and he could imagine how comically wide his eyes grew. 

“Nate,” Monty breathed out and he swore his voice did not tremble. Miller pushed him against a tree and held the knife closer against him, and it itched Monty’s throat. 

“You poisoned me,” Miller’s glare was almost venomous, and Monty wanted to shake his head, but because of the knife, he furrowed his brows instead.

“No, no, that wasn’t me-” He said, and the knife pressed impossibly harder without cutting the skin.

“It wasn’t you? Then explain how I almost died because of some poisoned stitches.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I swear, I didn’t want you to die. It was just a misunderstanding,” Monty tried not to ramble, but he was nervous and he couldn’t help it.

Miller opened his mouth again to speak, but he was interrupted by a sharp yell. Both heads turned towards the noise–towards where Monty was supposed to meet _Clarke_ –and he felt a strong desire to run and see if she was okay, seeing as how Miller loosened the hold on him when the yell sounded. Monty looked back to Miller to see that he looked worried too. 

“Move,” Miller said suddenly, turning back to Monty and pulling him off of the tree. He pushed Monty to walk in front of him and the knife was now pressed to the back of his head. He held his arms up in surrender to show that he wouldn’t try anything. Monty really didn’t feel like dying today.

They remained silent as they walked, and Monty attempted to keep his hands from visibly shaking, but–well, he was still nervous and he still couldn’t help it. He realized that this was probably what Miller felt like when Clarke and Monty were helping him, feeling so vulnerable to being killed. Monty definitely didn’t like this feeling, and he hated that he had made someone else feel it.

They arrived at the spot where Monty told Clarke to meet him to see the blonde girl holding a knife–Monty _really_ never wanted to see a knife again–against a kneeling man’s throat.

“Let him go,” Miller’s voice sounded from behind Monty and he flinched when the knife dug the slightest bit into his head through his hair. “Or I kill the Prince.”

“This is the Prince?” The man on his knees let out a laugh that halted when the knife pressed closer to his skin. “He’s puny.”

“I’d stop talking if I were you,” Clarke practically growled at him and pressed hard enough on his skin to make a small drop of blood appear. 

“Bellamy, how could you manage this?” Miller said harshly and Monty knew it was a code as soon as the man’s–Bellamy’s–fingers twitched. Bellamy jumped up and twisted Clarke’s arm behind her back, and Monty had to at least try _something._

He ducked quickly and whimpered as the knife dragged across his skin when he went down. He swiped Miller’s legs out from under him and the boy fell next to Monty. The knife fell from his hands and Monty swiped it without a second thought, climbing onto Miller and holding the weapon against his throat. 

“Don’t move.”

The words didn’t come from Monty, but from Miller, whose eyes had now gone wide. 

“What do you mean-”

“ _Sh_ ,” Miller said harshly, but quietly, and cupped a hand over Monty’s mouth. Monty knew he should’ve pulled away, knew that this could be a trap, but he couldn’t bring himself to move from the boy’s surprisingly warm hand. 

Miller slowly brought his hand away and Monty turned his head equally as slow to glance behind him, always keeping the knife at Miller’s neck. His grip on the handle tightened when he saw a jaguar behind him, debating whether to pounce on the two or not. Monty’s eyes widened as much as Miller’s had before and he ordered himself to keep his breath steady to not panic. 

_Clearly not all of the animals had gone into hibernation quite yet._


	8. Miller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, look at me not waiting a month to post another chapter! I'm actually pretty proud of myself for posting one relatively soon after the last chapter :) I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I look forward to seeing your reactions, so feel free to leave a comment! (psssst...comments inspire me to write more)

As Miller lied on the cold ground of the forest with a prince straddling his lap and a jaguar prowling only a few yards away from them, he swore to punch Bellamy in the mouth when they got out of this. Of course he’d be put in this place again, with the prince above him possibly holding his life in his hands. Miller knew that he could flip their position over easily because of the boy’s light weight, but he didn’t dare make any large movements with a wild animal so close to eating them.

Miller heard Bellamy and Clarke’s fighting stop also as they saw the animal, but luckily for them, it was much farther away and they would have a better chance of running away. He turned his head to the pair to see both sets of eyes staring widely at them and the jaguar, and he motioned with his free hand for them to go. Bellamy started at him like he was crazy, and the girl who straddled him shook her head adamantly, more likely for the other prince than Miller. 

He’d just wanted to find some food for the winter, and he was about to be attacked. Miller was starting to feel like he was always about to die anytime he left Azgeda. He wasn’t fond of this feeling. 

Miller looked up at the prince–Monty, he remembered his name was–and noticed his skin had grown as pale as a ghost. The knife against Miller’s neck was shaking. 

“Hey,” he whispered and his heart nearly stopped when he saw the jaguar’s nose twitch. Monty wouldn’t take his eyes off of the animal. Miller tapped his hand against the other boy’s leg and saw him hesitantly turn his head to look at him. 

“Hey, you need to not throw up right now, okay? Because I kind of want to live through this.” His voice was so quiet that he wasn’t even sure he was speaking. His voice became more urgent as the jaguar took another slow step towards them. “You need to push yourself up so less of your weight is on me,” and _god, did he really just say **push up**? this isn’t a time to be making **innuendoes** , Miller_, “I’m gonna reach back and grab my bow and quiver. And let’s hope we not die. On three, okay?”

He wasn’t giving Monty much of a choice in the matter. If he refused to move, Miller might just throw the boy at the jaguar and make a run for it. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to do that, though. Thankfully, the prince above him nodded and Miller mouthed _one, two, three_ , and Monty lifted himself up enough for Miller to grab his weapon from his back.

He saw the jaguar minimize the space between them and Miller worked as quickly as he could to take an arrow out of his quiver and shoot it, but he was a second too slow. The animal lunged at them as Miller shot and it’s arm darted out to pierce it’s claws through Monty’s back. Even if the arrow pierced it’s coat soon enough, Miller knew that the jaguar was too close for the claws not to fall on them anyways. 

And he was right, because as the arrow penetrated through fur and skin and into it’s heart, sharp claws still came down towards Monty. So, being the unselfish ass that he was, Miller pushed the smaller prince fully off of him in time for the claws to only slightly hit him and sink right into Miller’s leg.

And then the screaming started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE I'M NOT HURTING THEM ON PURPOSE I'M SORRY


	9. Monty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long to update. I'm going to try to be better with updating this book since I completed my other Minty fic :) Hope you like this chapter xx.

"Monty!" A deafening scream sounded through the previously quiet forest, and there was no doubt in Monty's mind that it would only attract more animals and people to their vicinity. 

"Miller," a slightly calmer voice said, scared, and a grunt came in return. 

Monty had no time to wonder about the happenings of his surroundings, however, as he willed himself to not cry over the pain in his side. He held his hand tightly against the wound, but it helped nothing because of how big the multiple wounds were. _Add these to the list of scars I already have_ , Monty thought and huffed out a laugh, but then breathed in sharply at the surge of pain the action caused. 

"Monty, Monty, I'm gonna turn you over, okay?" Clarke managed to sound calm and panicked all at once as she turned Monty over on his back. He cried out in pain and mentally scolded himself for doing so in front of Azgeda Grounders. "Okay, okay, it's not that bad, okay? It's fine, it's fine." The tremble in her voice said otherwise. 

"Am I gonna die?" He wheezed, and it hurt to talk. It hurt to _breathe_.

"No, no! I'm not letting you die, you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you."

"What the fuck," Monty picked up Miller's voice in between his conversation with Clarke, and he laughed internally. "What the fuck. There's a hand in my leg! Fuck, Bellamy, help me." Monty turned his head and saw Miller sitting up, glaring at the jaguar paw imbedded in his leg. 

"You're fine, right? You're okay?" The tall boy that Monty now knew as Bellamy asked, as concerned as Clarke but better at hiding it, and Miller nodded in return.

"Yeah, it's fine, see?" He picked up the paw while Bellamy yelled in protest, and pulled it from his leg with only a small wince. He dropped it next to him. 

"Considering you were screaming a second ago, I wouldn't call you _'fine'_." He held a hand out to help his friend--his _Prince_ \--stand up. He stood up swiftly, though kept his weight off of his left leg. 

"I've just been through a trauma, Bellamy. I'm sorry if I'm a bit back and forth," and then his eyes drifted to meet Monty's.

"Shit," was the last thing Monty heard before he drifted off into a painless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, but I wanted to get something out for you guys. Hopefully I'll stick to my word this time and actually not wait a month to update!


	10. Miller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so so long to get out. I don't really have an excuse for why it's so late, but I promise I'll do my best to maintain a regular updating schedule.

“This is not a good idea,” Bellamy grumbled from next to Miller as they waited for news from the Azgeda medical tent. 

“What did you want me to do, Bellamy? Leave him to die?” Miller gave him a side glance, not fully taking his eyes away from Clarke pacing in front of them. 

“Yes,” he hissed, and when Clarke paused and glared at Bellamy, they knew she was listening to their entire conversation. She took a step towards him when Azgeda’s main medical Grounder exited the tent, and all three placed their attention on him.

“Well?” Clarke said insistently, receiving a harsh look from the Grounder. 

“Prince Miller,” he bowed, and Miller nodded in return. “Do you wish to see the boy?”

“Yes, please,” he nodded again, and when Clarke moved to walk in with him, the Grounder pushed her backwards.

“You are not allowed in our medical tent.”

“Are you fu-”

Miller interrupted her argument. “You heard him. No Polis Grounders in our tents. You’re lucky to even be alive right now,” she breathed out angrily in response. “Keep an eye on her,” he said to Bellamy and walked into the tent.

The Prince of Polis was lying on a table, pale and sweaty, when Miller saw him. He seemed to be shaking and muttering in his unconscious state. “Will he live?” Miller asked, not taking his eyes away from the boy.

“There’s no way to tell at the moment. I closed his wounds and gave him antidotes for any possible healing, but he is still susceptible to infection. If he is still not healed in three days, we will be forced to let him die.”

“No, you will not,” Miller said sharply, finally lifting his eyes to the medical Grounder.

“Sir, we will run out of medical supplies if he stays here for-”

“That doesn't matter. We are not leaving him to die. If he does not awaken, then-”

Miller was interrupted by a harsh gasp of air and Monty surging up from the table. From the corner of his eye, Miller saw a weapon being unsheathed and the sound of yelling from outside the tent.

“Where am I? Where am I?” Monty whispered, frantically looking around the room and still shaking at an intense rate.

“Hey, hey, Monty,” Miller said, making Monty turn to look at him and the armed Grounder next to him. 

“Oh no, oh no,” he brought his arms to wrap around his body and yelled when he grazed the multiple stitches in his skin.

“You’re safe, you’re safe, you need to calm down,” Miller tried to calm the panicking boy, worried that the shock of simply being in Azgeda would kill him before the infection.

“Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” Monty whimpered, wrapping his arms around himself despite the pain Miller was sure it caused, and a few tears started to fall from his eyes.

“It’s okay, I won't let that happen,” Miller wasn’t sure why he felt such a strong sense of protectiveness over the boy--his enemy--but he brushed the confusion aside. “Get the girl,” he said to the medical Grounder, and when he hesitated to move, Miller yelled, “ _now_!”

The Grounder scrambled out of the tent, and Miller turned his attention back to Monty. “I’m going to get you out of here.”


End file.
